tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1470115786787140224.post3179103371258947274..comments2023-05-24T04:41:24.313-04:00Comments on heard, half-heard, in the stillness: But to-day the struggle.sarahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04796940410833284009noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1470115786787140224.post-72415310964607842532011-05-26T00:48:55.506-04:002011-05-26T00:48:55.506-04:00I don't know what to say to Eliot or Auden, ei...I don't know what to say to Eliot or Auden, either; so, usually, I let another poet talk back.<br /><br />This time, however, I'm still thinking about this poem, which somehow I'd never read before, and nothing immediately relevant springs to mind.<br /><br />But as for poetry in general, I've been reading George Mackay Brown lately, and I'm reminded of his "Four Kinds of Poet." And then of course I start trying to figure out which poets are which kinds; Eliot, for instance, is certainly a "4" while GMB himself is almost always a "3." Mark Doty, who I was quoting all over Slacktivist for a while, is a "1." I haven't read enough Auden lately to be sure, but I'd call him mostly a "2." And so on.<br /><br />Anyway, "Four Kinds of Poet"<br /><br />1.<br />Here, now. A new time, a new place. Write something. This is expected by publisher, readers. Try to render both actuality and soul of the place, look, and write. Quick. Time passes. The place is changing as I look and write. I wither. The place ingathers in a mesh of words. Words, keep me, keep all, now: a poem.<br /><br />2.<br />This place is boring, like most places. There's nothing I feel inclined to say about it. When (out of boredom) I try to find equivalent words, the place changes: a fog shifts, lifts. There are the stones, piers, windows, chimneys, children of light and water that once he saw in a good dream--long forgotten: a poem.<br /><br />3<br />What happened here? Congregate, ghosts, among the weathered and cracked stones. Take my mouth, speak. Dance. There was nothing but ritual on earth once. I imagine ceremonies. I will make masks: among those shadows buying and selling: a poem.<br /><br />4<br />Creation of a word, this place. What word? The word is streaming across time, holding this place and all planets and all grains of dust in a pattern, a strict equation. I am always trying to imitate the sound and shape and power of the unknowable word. Dry whisperings: a poem.<br /><br /><br />(Verification word: banscend. A law against transcendent poetry?)Amaryllisnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1470115786787140224.post-90321447864951663162011-05-23T17:12:59.151-04:002011-05-23T17:12:59.151-04:00I don't often comment on your poetry posts (be...I don't often comment on your poetry posts (because what can I say to Eliot or Auden?), but I appreciate them all the same.Rebeccanoreply@blogger.com